


Farmer's Market

by IsolationShepherd



Series: Ted's Adventures in England [1]
Category: Ted Lasso (TV)
Genre: American in England, Comedy, F/M, Farmer's Market, Funny, Funny British Foods, Some Rebecca/Ted fluff, Ted Puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:27:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29290572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsolationShepherd/pseuds/IsolationShepherd
Summary: Rebecca has to go to a farmer's market and forces Ted along with her. While there he encounters some bewildering British foods and shares a touching moment with the boss.This is part of a series I'm writing on Ted's Adventures in England, where he will discover the delights of his new neighbourhood in the company of people like Beard, Higgins, Nate, Roy and Keeley.
Relationships: Ted Lasso/Rebecca Welton
Series: Ted's Adventures in England [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151102
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	Farmer's Market

“Have you ever wondered how the biscuit got its name?” said Ted, examining the sugary shortbread he’d brought for his morning ritual with Rebecca.

He’d recently taken to eating one with her every morning because he’d realised that, although he’d called it Biscuits WITH the Boss, he rarely in fact ate any of the biscuits with Rebecca. It was more Biscuits FOR the Boss. Also, she’d been despondent since the team had been relegated and she’d found out her ex was to be a father. Ted had made it his mission to make her smile at least once a day.

“No,” she replied, wiping sugar from her lips.

“I was intrigued as to why y’all call them that when they should be cookies, named after the Cookie Monster of course.”

“Oh, God,” she said, putting her head in her hands.

“It’s true. Sesame Street is responsible for most of American culture. Like how to rhyme, for example. Do you think we’d have Hamilton if Luis Manuel Miranda had never watched Sesame Street? No.”

“Is there a point, Ted? I’ve got spreadsheets to look at.” Rebecca sighed dramatically, which she did often during their conversations. “Although, Hamilton is a wonderful musical.”

“Isn’t it? Musicals are a proven way of making politics interesting. Look at Evita.”

“Les Misérables.”

“Clinton.”

“Really?” She pulled a disbelieving face, which was understandable.

“Hmm, meh, you’re right. Anyway, the word biscuit comes from the French bis-qui, which itself comes from the Latin, panis biscotus, which means bread twice-cooked. What do you think to that?”

“I think we’ll never get back into the Premier League if this is how you spend your time.”

“I think it’s interesting on two levels,” he said, ignoring her attempt at humour. “Firstly, it means you Brits didn’t invent the biscuit though you like to think you did.”

“Says who?”

“Everybody knows it. Secondly, it has a better name in the Latin, panis biscotus. Isn’t that a great name? Everything should be latinised. Right now you are sitting at your deskus, eating your biscotus, drinking your cuppus of teaus.”

The door opened, and Ted turned to see Higgins enter, clutching a clipboard as usual.

“Here’s my man, Leslius Higginsus.”

“At your service,” said Higgins, bowing. “What are we talking about?”

“How everything sounds better if you make it Latin.”

“Ah.”

“You are carrying your clipus boardus.”

“I am, and I have with me my special penus...oh!”

“Maybe we shouldn’t latinise everything,” grimaced Ted.

“Best not,” said Higgins, shaking his head.

“Have you finished?” said Rebecca. “Only somewhere there’s an oven waiting for me to stick my head in.”

“I need to, erm speak to you actually,” stammered Higgins. “There’s a problem with the catering for your soirée, erm, garden party thing this afternoon.”

“What problem?”

“They can’t do it.”

“What? Why not?”

“Something wrong with their ovens apparently.”

“Ooh, is there a head in it? Did they find a head? Or a whole body? Did you ask them to roast Rupert, Rebecca?” said Ted, with a wide grin.

Rebecca did not smile in return. “What? No,” she said, dismissing his joke with an impatient shake of her blonde head. “Just get someone else to do it, Higgins.”

“I can’t at this late notice.”

“I own a football club. Don’t we have chefs, people who cook things?”

“You gave everyone a week off to recover from the trauma of the City game, remember.”

“That was my idea!” said Ted.

“Go to the shops, then,” said Rebecca, ignoring Ted.

“I’m afraid I’m not available. The children are having their annual flu jabs.”

“Flu jabs? It’s summer!” She fixed Higgins with a look that would laser Ted’s moustache off if it were directed at him. He stroked his upper lip defensively.

“We like to get ahead.”

Rebecca’s sigh reached seismic proportions. Ted held onto the arms of his chair in case it rocked the room.

“I’ll go to the store for you,” he said.

“Yeah?” Rebecca looked at him hopefully, and then she frowned. “If I said Broccoli and Stilton tartlets, vol-au-vents and scotch eggs what would you say?”

“I’d say I did not know you were fluent in a second language. What are those?”

Rebecca closed her eyes, elbows resting on the table, head in hands.

Higgins drew closer to her, then seemed to think better of it and backed away again. “Ms Welton, Rebecca, erm, there is a farmer’s market in Twickenham taking place at this very moment. You could perhaps—”

Rebecca’s eyes flew open. “Me?”

“There is no one...”

“God. Okay. You’re coming with me,” she said to Higgins. “Someone will have to carry the bags.”

“I can’t... the children.”

“Yes, their ridiculous summer flu jabs. You then,” she said, turning her green-eyed laser gaze on Ted. His hand flew to his moustache reflexively. “You’ll have to come with me.”

“I’d be delighted! I’ve never been to a farmer’s market before. Course, I’ve never needed to buy a farmer, so...” He grinned to lighten the mood.

Rebecca’s lip curled in her best impression of Elvis.

Higgins clapped his hands. “Wonderful!” he said, and then he backed out of the door, moving quickly for a man who more often than not tripped over his own feet.

Rebecca pushed back her chair with a loud scrape across the carpet and put on her long, burgundy coat. Ted was still in his AFC Richmond jacket having come to the boss’s office first thing on his arrival to work. He stood as well.

“I wonder if they’ll have lots of panis at the market?” he said. “Or cheesus. Ooh, hamus!”

“Can you stop punning for five minutes, please!” said Rebecca as they crossed the room.

“I will zippus my lippuses,” replied Ted and mimed doing that, although she couldn’t see him as she was in front of him. He saw her shoulders lift and fall and heard her sigh, but he also caught a glimpse of her smile in the reflection from the windows. Mission accomplished.

They drove to Twickenham in Rebecca’s chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. Ted got in the back on the far side while the chauffeur was opening the door for Rebecca. The first time he’d been in her car she’d made him sit up front with the driver, a man who clearly thought Ted was beneath him and refused to talk or acknowledge his presence in any way. Rebecca wasn’t much better back then, but things had improved lately. Since they’d had a heart to heart about her real reasons for employing him their relationship had shifted into one of greater mutual respect.

“I hope you won’t talk or pun or whatever it is you think you’re doing all morning,” she said, glaring at him. “I’m already getting a headache and the days barely started.”

Perhaps mutual respect was taking it a little too far. Grudging tolerance with occasional respect was perhaps a better description. He didn’t take it personally; she had a lot on her mind.

“You have what’s known as a Tedache,” he said. “My wife used to get them a lot.”

She looked at him, hair perfectly coiffed as the ladies liked to say, eyelashes like the legs of a hundred spiders shielding the windows to an elegant home. Everything about her was designed to guard against intrusion, to hide the vulnerability beneath. He waited, braced for another tut, or sigh, or eyeroll.

“Tedache,” she said, and then she smiled, spider legs lifting, eyes brightening. “Perfect.”

Ted relaxed. “So what’s this all about then, this farmer’s market? I’m assuming y’all don’t really buy farmers at these things?”

“You don’t buy farmers, no, you buy their produce. They all come to one place on a certain day and usually you can try things to see if you like them.”

“Try before you buy, my favourite! You know, that might be a good idea for football. Try out a player before you spend a butt load of someone else’s money on them.”

“We already have that; it’s called being on loan.”

“Oh, like Jamie Tartt. There was me thinking City were doing us a big old kind-hearted favour.”

“There are no favours in football. We’re here.”

Ted had assumed something as quaint sounding as a farmer’s market would take place in a field or a park like the one opposite the pub in Richmond. Instead, he climbed out of the car to find himself in a parking lot surrounded by a host of black dumpsters.

“You sure do love your trash in this country.”

“Says a man from a country that has Kardashians. Shall we get on. I have people coming at three.” Rebecca handed him half a dozen jute bags from Harrods.

She stood and surveyed the array of stalls and took a deep breath. “We need to be systematic about this, zero in on the right stalls. The caterers were supposed to be doing afternoon tea type things, petit fours, delicacies. Not sure we’ll find that here. I’ll settle for cheese truckles, pastries, artisan bread that kind of thing.”

She looked at Ted as though he was supposed to know what she was talking about, then moved off before he had chance to answer.

“Okay,” he said, following quickly. “But what’s a truckle? A truckload of people who like to laugh?”

That joke landed and made Rebecca chuckle. “No, it’s like a round cheese covered in wax.”

“Right,” he said, not sure why anyone would want to eat some kind of candle cheese. “Does it have a wick?”

“A what?”

“A wick. To go in the wax.”

Rebecca snorted. “No. God. Just follow me and hold the bag open when I buy something.”

“That I can do, boss,” he said.

They traipsed from stall to stall, each one loaded with foods made personally by people called Kitty or Gary or Chris. The names of some of the producers were as English as it got. Chalk Stream, Nut Knob, Manor Farm. The Tomato stall sold tomatoes, the Paddock stall dairy, the Pie Station pies, Bread Bread sold, well... bread.

“Not very inventive with the names,” he said as Rebecca nibbled a tiny piece of cheese from the Cheese Company stall.

“We tell it like it is. Straightforward us Brits.” She handed him a piece of the cheese. “Try this.”

“I like that y’all tell it like it is, except maybe being called wanker constantly, but then again at least I know where I stand.” He popped the piece of cheese into his mouth then immediately spat it back into his hand. “Ugh, what is that?”

“It’s a cheddar aged in a cave where rare ferns grow and turned once a week by Benedictine monks,” said the vendor, looking lovingly at the cheese.

“I’m sorry that y’all went to so much trouble but it tastes like the monks turned it with their feet. No thanks, not for me.”

“I’ll take two truckles and two of the real ale and red onion cheddar, thanks,” said Rebecca.

“Why didn’t you ask me to try the real ale one?”

“Because I was sure about that.”

Ted reached out to pick a square of the real ale cheese, but the stall holder slapped his hand away. “No. You were rude about the cheese so you’re not trying another.”

“I thought you like people who are straightforward?”

“Yes, but we never say what we really think to people selling us something or serving us food,” said Rebecca, gesturing to the bags Ted was holding.

He opened one, and she dropped the cheeses inside.

“Cheesus! I’ll never understand your people,” he said.

“I expect not,” replied Rebecca. “Oh, jams!” She strode to the next stall, Ted hurrying behind.

“That’s jellies, right? I know that.”

“I suppose. Ah, raspberry, my favourite. Ooh, this one’s infused with gin. Lovely. Can I try some of that?” said Rebecca, half to Ted and half to the vendor.

She got two of each flavour on top of tiny squares of what looked like Graham Crackers, passed one to Ted.

“Mmm, not bad. Very nice. Okay,” he said as he tried each one. “This one has bits in it!” He grimaced as he tried to tease one of the bits out from between his teeth with his tongue, but it was well and truly stuck. The stallholder looked at him askance and he grinned, tried to work the offending item out less noticeably.

“Do you have grape?” he asked her.

“Grape jam?”

“Yes. It’s my favourite.”

“No, but we have gooseberry.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll try some of that.”

She handed him a cracker with a green jelly on it that looked like something that had come out of Henry’s nose when he was small. Ted plastered a smile to his face. He ate it, and it was sour, making his tongue tingle and his mouth fill with water. “Lovely!” he said to the woman, trying not to drool.

“What are you gurning at?” said Rebecca when they left the stall.

“What do you mean?”

“Your face is all twisted and your head’s bent to one side. You look like Quasimodo!”

“I’ve got bits from the jelly jam stuck in my teeth and my tongue has exploded from that gooseberry booger!”

“You’re absolutely useless as a taster.”

“None of it tastes any good!”

“You like meat, I presume. Maybe you’ll make yourself useful there.”

They walked side by side along the rows of colourful stalls towards the meat vendor. Ted had never been to anything like this in Kansas City, wasn’t sure if there were such things as farmer’s markets, but then again he hadn’t done a lot of the grocery shopping when he was back home. Too caught up in work to do a lot of things he probably should have made time for, taken an interest in.

“What’s this garden party shindig you’re having all about then?” he said to Rebecca.

“Ah,” she said, stopping suddenly so he ended up walking a couple of steps ahead of her. He stopped as well, turned to face her.

“You celebrating something? It’s not your birthday is it? No, that’s next month I remember that.”

“I, erm, gosh, well.” She seemed flustered by his question, and then she cocked her head to one side. “How do you know when my birthday is?”

“I make it my business to know when all my team’s special days are.”

“Yes, of course you do.” She smiled briefly then stared at something above his head, which wasn’t hard for her as she was a good few inches taller than him in her red high heels. “I arranged the party some time ago, actually, as a celebration of, erm, what I thought would be... ah—”

“My humiliation,” said Ted, filling in the inevitable blanks to save her any more embarrassment.

“Not yours, the teams, well Rupert’s, you know.”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

“No need.”

“You know he’s getting married on Saturday?” She glanced down then, spider lashes damp, green eyes wide pools of unshed tears.

“I did not know that. Shotgun wedding I guess.”

“It would be if I were going,” she sniffed.

Ted chuckled. “He’d end up as one of these slabs of meat here.”

“The cheap cuts,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips.

“All the disgusting slimy bits nobody else wants.”

“Offal.”

“It is awful, yes. Ugh.” He shuddered at the thought.

“No, it’s called offal, all that stuff, the disgusting stuff, the insides.”

“Oh, then I guess it’s well named. At home we call that mystery meat.”

“It’s a mystery why anyone would want an old man for a husband,” she said, curling her lip again.

“The young are stupid.”

She laughed, and then turned towards the stall, started examining the meat. “I’m kind of put off this now.”

“Go veggie, do your bit for the planet.” He spotted a cut of prime rib with blood red meat and fine strips of marbled fat. “Ooh, rib!”

“Thirty-two days dry-aged Aberdeen Angus beef that,” said the vendor. “Tender as a baby’s bottom.”

“I’ve never tried a baby’s bottom, nor would I wish to, but I get what you’re trying to say,” said Ted, salivating at the thought of the rib slathered with some Arthur Bryant’s barbeque sauce.

“A minute ago you were encouraging me to go veggie!” exclaimed Rebecca.

“Meat free days and whatnot I’m all for that, but you can’t part a man from his ribs. Smoky meat that slips off the bone, sticky, sweet sauce, burnt ends on the side maybe with some slaw.” He sighed, could almost taste the ribs he’d had at The Stack the night before he’d left Kansas City for England.

“Get some if you feel like that about it.”

“Nah, I don’t have outdoor space and a smoker at the flat, and there’s too much for one person.”

Rebecca raked her eyes over him for a long moment. “I’ve got a barbeque and a big garden. You could smoke them at my house. Not today, obviously. Not with guests there.”

“No, of course. Well, yeah, that would be great! Would Saturday be good?”

“Saturday would be perfect.”

“Should I bring the boys? Beard and Nate are still around. Higgins probably.”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “If you want; it’s up to you.”

He tried to figure out what she really wanted, which was hard given that he now knew English people were both straightforward and totally secretive about their true feelings. He’d chosen Saturday because that was Rupert’s wedding day and he’d figured she’d appreciate some company. Maybe the company of everyone would be too much? It was impossible to know because the spider guards were down again.

“They might be busy, so it could end up just me,” he ventured.

“Just you is fine,” she said, suddenly finding a piece of plastic-wrapped meat fascinating. “If that’s how it ends up.”

“Okay. Well, that’s awesome then!”

“Yes. Erm, we’ll have the prime rib and I’ll also take a selection of the deli meats,” Rebecca said to the vendor, voice firm, back to business.

He’d thought more people would be fun and take her mind off Rupert, but maybe she didn’t want to take her mind off it. Maybe she wanted to think about it, to break down if she felt like it. Maybe she could only do that with him. They had a bond in that regard, ever since Liverpool and then that day in his office. They were two hearts broken in the same way. Perhaps it took one to heal the other.

Rebecca tipped the meats into the bags and Ted’s arms sagged with the sudden weight.

“Right! Pies!” she said, striding off. Ted redistributed the bags so he was balanced and trundled after her. The pie stall was a bewildering array of brown items, most of which had their fillings hidden within so it was impossible to tell one from the other and you only had the vendor’s word for it that it contained what it promised. There were pies with meat, ones with cheese, ones with vegetables. Pies with meat, cheese and vegetables all in one. There was even a pie with mac and cheese inside the pastry!

“Why?” said Ted to Rebecca as she purchased dozens of the smallest pies. “Why would anyone do that?”

“I believe it’s a Scottish thing,” she said, seemingly unperturbed at the abomination in front of her.

“But it’s mac and cheese AND it’s pastry. Two of those things are good together. Three are bad. It’s like a ménage à trois but the third person is an alien who doesn’t belong on this planet!”

“If you were in Scotland, they’d probably cover it in batter and deep fry it.”

“Nooooo!”

“Yup. That’s the north for you. Be grateful you’re in London where our food tastes are sophisticated.” She turned to the vendor. “I’ll have a pint of jellied eels as well.”

Ted made an involuntary gagging noise.

“One of my friends loves them,” Rebecca said as though that was some form of explanation for the grossness of the mass of wobbly flesh that was put into a Styrofoam pot for her.

“Y’all can never say anything bad about American food ever again!”

“What’s the problem? You’ve had oysters haven’t you?”

“Not even if I was pinned down and stripped naked and threatened with being paraded at the Super Bowl would I eat an oyster.”

“Then we’ll have oysters on Saturday for a starter, make a gourmet out of you yet.” She patted his cheek and grinned.

They moved through the rest of the market at a marching pace. Ted’s arms seemed to get closer to the ground the more was added to the bags. He figured he’d be dragging it all behind him soon. Then they ended up at a stall selling alcohol which normally he’d be happy about, but Rebecca was eyeing up cases of wine and he didn’t think he could carry anything else unless she balanced it on his head, which knowing her she might try to do.

“Try this,” she said handing him a plastic thimble full of a pink liquid.

“No thank you. Last time you said that I ended up with cave mould in my mouth.”

“This is different. You’ll like it; I promise.”

He took the thimble and tipped the liquid into his mouth, screwing up his face in anticipation of something primeval sliding down his throat. It turned out to be sweet and sharp at the same time, and not at all unpleasant.

“Hmmm. Not bad.”

“Raspberry gin liqueur. I cannot get enough of this. Three bottles please,” she said addressing the last part to the vendor.

“Rebecca, I don’t think—” but the bottles were added to the last of his bags and Ted had to rest everything on the floor of the parking lot.

“I think I’m done!” she said with a happy sigh.

“Good!”

“Back to the car; I’ve got a couple of hours before the girls are due so should have time to get this lot ready.”

She set off at pace again, her long legs making great strides across the asphalt, her tall figure imposing enough to make the crowds part like waves before her. Ted hooked a bag on each shoulder and picked up the other three, swapping them around to find the right balance. He stumbled along, stooped and weary, the crowd closing behind Rebecca and forcing him to duck and weave his way through.

“There you are!” she said when he finally made it to dumpster world where the car was idling in wait.

“Sorry, it was...” Ted’s shoulders slumped, and the bags hit the ground with a thud.

“Careful!” Rebecca indicated to the chauffeur who removed the bags from Ted’s person as carefully as though they contained unexploded bombs, giving Ted a sniffy look as he did so.

Ted pulled a face behind his back which of course he saw as he turned to get the final bag. Ted turned the glower into a smile, seamlessly he thought. The chauffeur ignored him.

“Shall I take you home, Ms Welton?” he said to Rebecca.

“Yes, but we’ll have to drop Ted in Richmond on the way.”

“As you wish.” He didn’t look at Ted, but he seemed to be quick settling Rebecca into her seat and opening the driver’s door. Ted sprinted around to the other side, managed to fall into his seat as the man moved off, the door swinging shut on its own from the momentum.

“That was actually not bad,” said Rebecca, unbuttoning her coat and crossing her legs.

“You British have an interesting taste in food,” replied Ted, rubbing his aching shoulders.

“You have to educate your palate, move away from beef and more beef or whatever it is Americans eat.”

“Beef pretty much covers it, yeah.”

She nodded, pursed her lips, fixed him with a softer look. “Thanks for saying you’ll come on Saturday. I, erm, I appreciate it.” She took his hand, gave it a quick squeeze then dropped it.

“No problem. I’m looking forward to some primus ribus.”

“No Latin allowed!”

“Whatever you say, Boss,” he said with a grin.

Rebecca smiled.


End file.
